


Needed, Wanted

by Kari_Kurofai



Category: My Engineer (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Barebacking, Cock Warming, Established Relationship, M/M, Possessive Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:15:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24285700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kari_Kurofai/pseuds/Kari_Kurofai
Summary: Duen sets down his pencil in the open crease of one of the books and leans back on his hands. He’s wearing that look now, the one that Bohn knows means he should just get to the point, so he swallows down against the last of his uncertainty and says all in one breath, “I want to sit on your dick while you study.”Duen’s eyebrows climb into his hairline and his mouth falls open slightly. “Uuuhhhh . . .”“Not, like, ride you,” Bohn clarifies hastily. “It’s a very, er, chaste dick sitting . . . thing . . .” He fiddles with the hem of the towel around his waist and sucks in a steadying breath. “You get to keep studying, and I get . . . What I want.”
Relationships: Bohn/Duen (My Engineer)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 388
Collections: T/CBL





	Needed, Wanted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Audoldends (Edle_Kraft)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edle_Kraft/gifts).



> Audoldends requested I make good on my cock warming tease from Irreversibly and Gravitationally Yours, so I did. However I am fucking physically capable of writing pwp so there's *vague hand wave* emotions. Enjoy anyways. This doesn't necessarily take place in the Valedictions Validated verse but it can if you want it to. 
> 
> Also I've been heavily reading Bohn as intensely and very specifically pansexual since halfway through episode two, and it shows in this fic. Sorry not sorry.

“What do you get out of this?” King asks. “That’s, what, the fifth girl you’ve casually dated and then dumped in the last two months?” 

If it were anyone but King, Bohn might be offended. But there’s genuine dismay in his tone, in the shape of how he’s sitting at their favorite table in the engineering courtyard. He has his chin propped up on the back of one hand, the other busy fiddling with the corner of a page in his open textbook that he’s not even reading. King’s not berating him, he’s concerned. 

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Bohn says, and it’s so obvious a lie he can taste it as it falls from his tongue. Still, he wants to hear what King will counter it with, what flaws he will point out in how Bohn conducts his extracurricular proclivities. This discussion has been a long time coming.

King sighs and flips the textbook closed. “You never stick with any one girl for more than a week or two, and sometimes you juggle the attention of a few at a time.” He shrugs. “I guess I’m just curious as to why.”

How vague, Bohn thinks, and he mulls over how to respond to that and comes up disastrously short. “Why not?”

His head falling into his hands, King mutters, “Why not? What the hell. Don’t you want something more?”

More? Bohn runs an absent hand over his chest, digs his fingers into the fabric of his shirt just above his sternum. “The sex is nice,” he hears himself say distantly. For some reason that too falls short on being entirely truthful. He keeps that thought to himself though, tucks it away with a twist behind his ribs and lets discomfort settle in gnawing waves beneath his skin. Sure, there’s undeniable pleasure in the act, and he enjoys it well enough in the heat of the moment, but afterwards. . .

Afterwards there’s that awful, hollow minute where he finds himself realizing that that’s all it is, that he only did it because he thought he was expected to. He sits through casual coffee dates with fake smiles, faker laughs, interested in the body but not the person inside it. And then he takes them to bed simply because that’s the next step. That’s fine though, right? Whether or not he finds a girl's personality appealing shouldn’t hold any sway in whether or not he wants to fuck her.

Right?

Sometimes it’s worse, sometimes he makes the effort to try and like them more, takes them out for a fancy meal, a new box office blockbuster, a night of dancing and drinking. Bohn has spun pretty girls under his arm and held their hands in the theater while pasting on his best smiles and his brightest laughs over his efforts because _surely, this time_. And every now and then he even has fun with it, thinks he might be stirring up that missing emotion in that empty place inside himself, only to find that something about it all isn’t quite right. There’s a misplaced piece, a spark lacking, but he doesn’t know how to explain what exactly he’s looking for, or if he’s even looking at all. 

There’s a whale in the vast expanse of the sea that sings in a tone the rest of its species is deaf to, isolated by a flaw it can’t control.

“Do you think there’s something wrong with me?” Bohn asks before he can think better of it, and flinches at the way King’s expression falls.

“Oh, Bohn . . .”

Bohn looks away, hates the pity he can see in his friend’s eyes, and bites down on the inside of his cheek until it bleeds. If there’s something he’s missing, that’s his own fault, his own shortcoming. He’s too picky, too stubborn, too easily disinterested. Next time, he’ll try harder, be better. An imperfection can be corrected, and he’s stupid if he expects someone else to fix it for him. “Nevermind,” he mumbles once he’s sure he can say it around the lump in his throat. “Forget I said anything.”

And then Bohn forgets about this, too. He forgets the entire conversation right up until the point he's snatching up a bouquet of roses months later and asking for more. 

~~~***~~~

See, here’s the thing. Bohn is well aware that he’s a needy, clingy bitch. But here’s the other thing. How can he not be? Duen gives him everything, every physical, emotional, absent fragment of himself he never knew he needed. So of fucking couse he’s going to take whatever he can, crave it when they’re apart, and drive himself half mad agonizing about whether or not he’s capable of keeping ahold of this precious, wonderful thing. Duen is the moon, and Bohn is just the hopeless idiot thinking he can lasso him and tether him to the ground. 

Luckily, he’s done a fair enough job of that so far. Or he was, until Duen’s second year exam season loomed around the corner.

The coffee table in their living room has been scattered with books and study packets for almost a week now, and every moment he’s not in class finds Duen sitting there, looking harassed and harried and at the end of his rope.

Bohn orders takeout all week, sticks to the outer edges of the apartment and tries his damndest not to make as much of a nuisance of himself as he usually does. Residual guilt for the last time he fucked up Duen’s studies before they were even dating still lingers in his veins, and if he crawls into bed at night long before his boyfriend does, and wakes up well after he leaves, he doesn’t let on how much it’s been wearing on him. Sometimes, with the hindsight of a true idiot, he reminisces over the days when he didn’t understand what he was missing. 

Love sucks? It’s hard? It hurts? What the fuck?

Still though, there’s only so much Bohn can take, only so much he can hang back and be supportive in silence before it starts to eat away at him.

On Thursday he tucks himself neatly against Duen’s back while he studies, presses his face into his shoulder and brackets him in with his legs before he winds his arms around his middle. It helps a little, especially when Duen’s only complaint comes in the form of a fond huff and brief moment where he tangles his fingers in Bohn’s hair before he gets back to work. In its own way the proximity alone is soothing. Bohn likes how he can feel Duen’s every heartbeat and breath as if it’s a part of his own body, enjoys the warmth that seeps through his clothes and into his own skin, but it’s not enough.

He’s greedy, and it’s not enough.

On Friday, feeling bold despite the continued disquiet of need that’s starting to encompass his every waking thought, Bohn emerges from the shower with a towel around his waist and asks, “Can we try something?”

Duen glances up from the packet he’s flipping through and raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t speak for a long moment, merely studies Bohn with quick flickers of his eyes, and then Bohn’s breath catches harshly in his lungs as he looks away and whispers, “I haven’t been being a very good boyfriend to you this week,” like it’s _his_ fault.

Shit. 

“No, that’s not-” Bohn tries, stops, fails. “You’re allowed to be busy,” he settles on after a second. “And I want you to pass your exams. I’m just . . .” He can’t help the laugh that escapes him, fake with that telltale air of nervous, internalized distaste. “. . . You know me,” he finishes lamely.

And the thing is, Duen does. He does know him, and Bohn watches that knowledge settle into his gaze, solidify with that soft intensity that’s only ever been directed at him. “Yeah,” he agrees easily, “I do.”

Warmth blooms in Bohn’s chest, unfurls in slow petaled shapes and brushes back some of the tightness behind his ribs. “I’ll behave,” he says quickly, encouraged by the way Duen’s expression softens further, how his eyes crinkle in the corners with mild, if affectionate, disbelief. “And you can call it off if I’m being a pest-”

“You’re not a pest,” Duen interrupts.

Bohn frowns, considers this with the grace of someone genuinely flattered, and then says, “Okay. But I might be. With this, I mean. I don’t know.” Duen sets down his pencil in the open crease of one of the books and leans back on his hands. He’s wearing that look now, the one that Bohn knows means he should just get to the point, so he swallows down against the last of his uncertainty and says all in one breath, “I want to sit on your dick while you study.”

Duen’s eyebrows climb into his hairline and his mouth falls open slightly. “Uuuhhhh . . .”

“Not, like, ride you,” Bohn clarifies hastily. “It’s a very, er, chaste dick sitting . . . thing . . .” He fiddles with the hem of the towel around his waist and sucks in a steadying breath. “You get to keep studying, and I get . . . What I want.”

Once again he finds himself at a total loss of how to quantify what he wants. There are simultaneously too many words and not enough. Proximity, intimacy, warmth, comfort, connection, affection, _possession_. He’ll take any and all of it so long as it keeps being his for the taking. 

Duen considers this in silence and clenches his fingers just slightly in the fibers of the rug. “You’ll behave?” he asks, an echo of an earlier insistence, and Bohn nods so fast he almost bites his tongue. “Alright, come here.” Bohn’s on top of him almost before he even finishes speaking, kneeling down and tucking himself up against his side and under his already half raised arm. Duen leans into him without hesitation, presses a kiss, then another, into his hairline, and Bohn practically melts as the weight of his own doubts bleeds out of him in waves. “You’re going to have to do everything yourself,” Duen murmurs against his forehead, “I really do have to keep studying.” He says it, but his hand is wandering in lazy circles down Bohn’s bare back, teasing at the edge of the towel. 

Bohn lets him continue for a minute, relishes in the way his fingers press against a fading hickey on the small of his back as if he knows where every mark he’s placed is by memory alone, and then pulls away. “Don’t move?” he asks as he stands up, always a request and never an order. Duen just smirks and picks up his pencil again to tap it impatiently against the coffee table. 

It only takes him a few seconds to grab what he needs, and Bohn has no shame in whipping his towel off and onto the floor on his way back. “You know,” Duen says casually when he returns, gifting him one of his privately intense and heated glances over the top of the textbook he’s flipping through. “We established nothing about _me_ being good.”

Bohn freezes mid step and stares. “Um . . . Okay?”

“Hmm,” Duen hums, an oddly agreeing sort of sound. “Well let’s just take care of you first, and I’ll see how far I get in this test prep packet before I decide.” He smiles when he says it in that bright way he always does, as if his statement is nonchalant rather than dangerously hot. Bohn questions (not for the first time) if he has any idea of the effect he has on him. 

He settles down on the floor beside Duen again, tucks his knees under him and sets the bottle of lube he’d grabbed on the edge of the table. Duen casts it a swift side-eye but otherwise keeps his attention on his notes. This is the difficult part, Bohn realizes as he fumbles with Duen’s belt, the clasp of his pants, his zipper, because it’s going to take all of his fucking willpower not to go too far the second he gets his hands on his boyfriend’s cock. He feels starved, strung out and on edge, and when he pulls Duen out of his boxers he can’t help the way his thighs start to shake. The noise he bites back, needy and high, is far from subtle. After a moment Duen fits a hand over his hip and tugs him into his lap. Bohn goes without a hint of protest. 

“Slow down,” Duen murmurs against the side of his neck as he fits their bodies together. He’s still turning a page in his textbook, and when Bohn peeks over his shoulder he’s popping the cap off a highlighter and marking out something in his prep packet. “I’m right here.”

And that’s the whole point of this, isn’t it. 

Bohn sucks in a deep breath, another, and curls his fingers around Duen’s length again. He’s already mostly hard, and Bohn revels in the little delicious bit of pride that sparks in him. While he’s sure he’s turned people on with his body before, there’s something different about being able to do it over and over again to the same person, to still be desired after over a year of being together. He runs reverent fingers over the proof of that, listens to Duen’s breath catch as he strokes him until he’s satisfied with the results, and then reaches over to grab the lube. “I already did myself in the shower,” he says by way of explanation as he drips some over his hand, drags it down. Duen shudders out a breathy sigh at the motion, and Bohn memorizes the sound. He shifts on his knees a bit, readjusts to line them up, and fists a hand into the back of Duen’s shirt. “Let me know if it’s too much?”

“When have I ever not?” Duen says. He’s settled a hand against the small of Bohn’s back again, his fingers moulding into the soft dip of skin as Bohn takes in a deep breath and starts to sink down. “Slowly,” Duen reminds, and his voice cracks just a little. 

Bohn buries his face into his shoulder, presses their chests together, and obliges. He works his way down in inhales, seats himself in centimeters and long, drawn out seconds until he can’t go any further. His legs shift to hook around Duen’s waist, his heels digging into the rug, and he winds his arms over his shoulders. Duen is quiet against him, but Bohn can feel every breath, every stutter of his heart paced out with the staccato of fingers trailing up and down his spine. “Okay?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” Duen says hoarsely after a minute. “But if you move we’re going to have a problem.” 

Bohn chokes on a groan at the very suggestion, and a tremble works its way through him as Duen’s cock twitches deep inside. _Fuck_. “I’ll behave,” he whispers, a reminder to both Duen and himself. 

Duen taps his highlighter against the surface of the coffee table but doesn’t respond other than to curl the hand against Bohn’s back possessively tighter, which is answer enough. 

It takes him awhile to calm his racing heart, to take a deep enough breath and not feel just the tiniest bit dizzy. He buries his face into the curve of Duen’s neck and closes his eyes, lulled by the sounds of the pages being turned behind him. To say that this was exactly what he wanted would be an understatement. It’s more, and still he doesn’t have a way to express why. 

There’s something wholly soothing about being connected, being held in the most intimate way possible. Bohn had latched onto it that first time they’d had sex, and he hadn’t let go of his yearning for it for a single second since. Similarly, he’d once seen a pretty smile, a brilliant laugh, a kind almost-stranger buying a whole bouquet of roses, and his attention and affection had been fixated in an instant, never to stray elsewhere ever again. His days revolve around Duen now, are wrapped in gentle loops of give and take, shared space and shared time. If he tries hard enough he can pick apart the whys and hows of what fell short in his previous relationships, read between the lines to see that his attractions are wired a bit differently. But then again, maybe that’s all just Duen. Maybe there was just something specific about him, some latent draw that pulled Bohn in before he even knew what was happening. Because he knows other people have seen it too, have appreciated his boyfriend’s easy smiles, his generosity, his genuine love of wanting to be helpful and needed.

Bohn fists the fabric of Duen’s shirt between his fingers a little tighter. Other people can look, but they can’t touch. That privilege is his and his alone. 

“You okay?” Duen asks softly, and the hand against Bohn’s lower back travels up, traces languid lines over his spine until the tension eases from his shoulders again. He shifts a little where he sits, and Bohn muffles a gasp against his shoulder as he feels the movement travel up through him, _into_ him. 

“Just thinking,” Bohn mumbles once he gets his breath back. And then, because he can’t help it, he chokes out a staggered, quiet, “Love you.”

Duen’s fingers dig into his back, just hard enough that Bohn knows it’ll leave little crescent indents on his skin for awhile. “Love you too,” he responds without hesitation. Bohn tilts his head to the other side, stares at the city glistening with hints of a storm beyond the window, and closes his eyes to the tune of Duen’s pencil scratching out a new line of notes. “You’re being very good,” he adds after a moment, and Bohn can’t help the thrill those words send through him, the pleased little noise it drags out of his lungs. “It’s already been twenty minutes.”

Has it? He hasn’t noticed, and he certainly hasn’t been keeping track of the time. “I like this,” he admits on his next exhale, and if they weren’t coalesced like they are he’s not sure Duen would have heard him with how quietly he says it. 

The pencil falters for just a second, then continues scratching away. “Yeah?”

“Mm,” Bohn confirms, “I like being close to you.” But that’s not quite it. He tightens his arms around Duen’s shoulders a bit, does his damndest not to push forward into the motion too much and doesn’t quite succeed. He whimpers, squeezes his thighs around Duen’s waist, and stills again. “I like that . . . that you _want_ me to be close to you,” he amends after a heartbeat, and that might be as near to the truth as he has ever come. 

He has never found himself wanting and been wanted back in equal measure before, and something about that stokes the fire inside him fiercer than anything else. It still burns with the same intensity as it had sparked with, fueled by that star studded night when his boyfriend had first leaned in to kiss him. 

Duen’s hand is mapping out his back again, finding old bruises and marks and pressing diligently into each and every one until Bohn can’t help but shiver beneath his touch. “I’m sorry about this week,” he murmurs over the turn of a page, the pull of a highlighter across paper. “I should have noticed sooner.”

“I could have said something sooner,” Bohn counters. It’s an old argument by now, a roundabout conversation where they confess their shortcomings and forgive them. They’ll do it again, Bohn’s sure, keep wearing it down until they’re old and grey. “But it’s fine now.” The first beats of rain are beginning to hit the window, and Bohn watches through half-lidded eyes as they streak down the panes in prelude to the thunder ahead. “Can we go to bed together tonight?” he asks. “Since it’s Friday?”

They have nowhere to be tomorrow, no pressing matters to attend to other than Duen’s continued studying before the looming threat of Monday’s exams. Surely he can ask for that much.

“Of course,” Duen answers, and Bohn revels, as he always does, in the utter lack of hesitation. “I can cook something tomorrow as well,” he adds, and Bohn has to bite his lip to try and hold back the smile that splits his face. “Nothing fancy though,” Duen adds. “And if you keep being good, we might have time for this again, too.” He drags his nails down Bohn’s spine as he says it, taps out his meaning against the small of his back. And then, surprise of all surprises, Bohn feels the shoulder he’s leaning against tense, and glances behind him just in time to watch Duen grip the edge of the table like an anchor with his free hand before he rolls his hips up.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Bohn gasps. He scrabbles at the base of Duen’s neck, bunches up his shirt between his fingers, and struggles in a breath that is perilously close to a whine. 

“Behave,” Duen says against his ear, and Bohn just about bites off his own tongue. “Twenty more minutes, okay?”

Bohn nods, his heart racing so hard he knows Duen must be able to feel it where their chests are pressed together. Belatedly he realizes that he needs to give verbal confirmation, and he forces out a hoarse, “Yeah.”

He’d gone soft before during the long minutes where all he cared about was the proximity, the comfort, but all it took was that one tantalizing taste of more to make him painfully hard again. When it comes to sex with Duen Bohn is always chasing the quickest high, the fastest release. He wants everything and anything, takes it all from zero to a hundred and still comes down from it aching for more. So in contrast, this might be pretty close to actual torture.

Except that he kinda loves it.

There’s almost something more intimate in the slowness. He basks in the silence that lingers in long bouts punctuated only by the scratching of pencil on paper, rejoices in the pressure of Duen’s hand on the small of his back. The fingers against his skin flex now and then, dig into the flesh just above his ass, and inevitably make him clench, grind down and squeeze his thighs around Duen’s sides. The third time earns him a disapproving bite to the juncture of his neck, which is a foolish endeavor because it just makes Bohn’s cock twitch with interest where it’s trapped between their bodies. He muffles a groan into Duen’s shoulder as a shiver works its way through him. “Mean,” he whimpers, and his breath is abruptly cut off as Duen jerks up into him, forcing a startled, “ _Hah-ah_!” from his lungs.

“You’re not being good,” Duen chides cheekily, and Bohn can hear the smile in the words. 

He scowls against the crook of Duen’s neck, “Yeah, kinda hard to do that when you’re being a tease- _fuck,_ ” he hisses, arches his back and bunches up Duen’s shirt between his fingers as he’s rolled up into again, a second, a third time. “ _F-fuck_. You’re not being _fair_.” The last thrust hits just right, and he chokes on an embarrassing, needy little mewl that leaves his cheeks flushed as he hides his face and squeezes his eyes closed.

“I didn’t say I would be, remember?”

Bohn inhales sharply. “Fucking finish your studying I swear to g- _ah_ \- od. _Fuck_.”

“Ten more minutes.”

This time the sound of the pencil tapping away on the open page of the study packet isn’t soothing, it’s hellish. It’s the worst kind of ASMR, a constant record of how viciously slow time is passing. Bohn thinks he makes it two, maybe three minutes tops before it becomes unbearable, and he gives in to his own desires. He swivels his hips, just a little, just enough to chase that delicious spark of pleasure, to make Duen’s cock jump inside him.

Nails dig into his spine immediately and the pencil clatters onto the wood of the coffee table. “ _Bohn_ ,” Duen warns.

Bohn shakes his head and does it again, bites down on a pleased and breathy moan when Duen’s other hand settles on his hip. “I can’t,” he mumbles where his face is still pressed into the curve of his boyfriend’s neck. “I _can’t_.” He shifts, gets his knees under him so he can raise himself up properly, sink back down so fast he sees stars. “ _Fuck_. Please, baby, please. Enough. _I need you_.”

There’s only so much he can take, only so long he can last on the tail end of a touch-starved week before he starts begging. 

Bohn had never wanted before until he knew exactly what it was he wanted at all. 

“Please, please, please,” he begs even as Duen is already cradling a hand over the back of his head, is pushing away from the table to tip them over onto the rug. Bohn curls into him tighter as his shoulder blades hit the carpet, wraps his legs around his waist as soon as he has the purchase to. He hopes Duen has another school shirt he can wear next week, because he’s genuinely afraid he might destroy this one with how hard he’s twisting it beneath his hands. “ _Please_ ,” he repeats, unashamed of how his voice breaks over the word. “I need you. Baby, _I need you_.”

Duen is trailing his fingers around from his back and down over his ribs. He takes his time, chases every touch with a breath against Bohn’s neck, a bite into the jut of his collarbone, a fresh bruise to overheated skin. Every second is drawn out, pulled taut until it ticks away to infinity, and by the time Duen finally moulds his hands over his hips, fits them into the spaces Bohn’s body feels made to hold them, he almost weeps in relief. Duen tugs him up, cinches his thighs around his waist tighter, and finally _finally_ rocks into him with that just right amount of cadence that drives white hot lightning through his entire body.

“ _Hah_! _Oh god, oh fuck_ -”

“T-thirty-three minutes is actually pretty impressive,” Duen says, and Bohn’s eyes snap open as he registers the indicative stutter. He rolls up into the next thrust, the one after, practically purring as it sinks in that Duen had been holding back too. His boyfriend’s breath against his neck is harsh, jagged in uneven pants, and after a minute his grip on Bohn’s hips turns bruising. 

Bohn covets that praise though, wants to savor it whenever he gets it. And there’s something especially delicious about receiving it at the peak of everything. “Ye- _ah, fuck_ \- yeah? I was good?” He crosses his ankles behind Duen’s back, digs his heels into the base of his spine, and his vision swims as that drives him impossibly deeper. He earns a choked moan for his efforts, one loud enough that it reverberates against his throat and leaves him dizzy with gratification. “You gonna come?” he teases, even as every syllable escapes him in tones edging on a whimper. Fuck, he’s so close. It’s been too many days, and then too many minutes. He’s on the precipice too fast and yet somehow never fast enough. It’s hard to crave something you’ve never had, but now that Bohn has it he’s _insatiable_. “I’m so close,” he chokes out against the curve of Duen’s shoulder, the fabric of his shirt. “You’re so- _hah!_ so good to me, baby. Please, please, just a little more and then you can-”

Somehow it always takes him by surprise, always rips a high cry from his chest and makes every muscle in his body seize up in ripples. He clenches down as he spills over his stomach, between their bodies, and tightens his legs around Duen’s waist ever harder as if that will hold him inside, keep him as deep as he can go so that Bohn can feel how he jerks into his body and hisses on an inhale when he comes. A seam pops audibly somewhere on Duen’s shirt, and Bohn can’t bring himself to feel bad about it as Duen gasps out, “ _Fuck_ , Bohn, _f-fuck_!” in his ear.

He’s good at this, Bohn thinks smugly, blearily, coming down from his high as Duen chases the last of his own in short, shallow thrusts and muffled curses; he has a talent at dragging them both over the edge almost simultaneously. 

“I can feel you smirking,” Duen mutters against his neck as soon as he has the wherewithal to speak. “You’re really pleased with that, aren’t you.”

“Uh, yeah?” Bohn grins. His entire body is shaking still, shivering with cooling sweat and the first traces of soreness that he hopes will linger into morning. Still, he’s loathe to let go. “I like making you come,” he says with zero shame. 

He likes a lot of other things too, but he’s said them a hundred, a thousand times over by now. Bohn nuzzles into the crook of his boyfriend’s neck and steadies himself on a deep breath, satiated in the shared space and the gentle back and forth.

“I think I needed that,” Duen murmurs. 

“ . . . An orgasm?”

Duen snorts. “No, you-” He stalls, and Bohn likes the way one of his arms moves to slip between him and the rug, pull him up and hold him closer. “You,” he repeats, and this time it’s an answer rather than an aborted, affectionate insult. “ _You_ ,” he reiterates, and when Bohn shudders in the wake of it it’s with more than oncoming exhaustion.

God, he’s so fucking _happy_.

“It’s a good luck orgasm,” Bohn can’t help but goad regardless. “Now you’re sure to pass all your exams.” He pauses, considers, and then amends, “Or at least one of them. You might want to try for one for every-”

Duen pulls away just enough to get a hand in the back of his hair, put some space between them for the express purpose of glaring at him before he drags Bohn’s head up for a fierce kiss. “Holy shit, _shut up._ ”

Bohn shuts up, more than content enough to sink into the warmth of the continued embrace.

**Author's Note:**

> Do. Not. Fucking. Comment. Anti. BohnDuen. Shit. I swear to god. I'm so tired of it. Just don't do it. Why would I want to hear about how much you dislike them in the show when I clearly like them enough in canon to write like 40k total words for them? Please don't. It just makes me sad. Also I screenshot those comments and share them with my My Engineer group chat for roasting purposes when you do it. 
> 
> Feel free to leave any other comments tho of course lmao. I enjoy those and they fuel me into writing more and more fic.


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